Long Cool Woman

by WvonB

Chuck works for the FBI. Who's the Long Cool Woman? An AU-Ish tale.

A/N: If you haven't ever heard Long Cool Woman (In a Black Dress) by the Hollies, go listen to it now. (Or more than once. Maybe a couple of dozen times as I did while writing this story.)

It's an old song, almost 50 years have passed since it came out. But it has one of the very best guitar intros of any rock song. Period.

It also contains one of the most indecipherable lyrics in rock music, one that inspired me to write this. As you listen (and read) see if you can guess which line it is.

I'll tell you the answer later.

I don't own Chuck et al.

Or the lyrics written by Allan Clarke, Roger Cook, and Roger Greenaway

Or the lyrics written by Ira Gershwin, for that matter.

Trust me, it gets clearer as it goes along.

Off we go!

—

LONG COOL WOMAN

Saturday night I was downtown

Working for the FBI

I look behind me just in case he was talking to someone who came in without me being aware of it.

Nope, just me and FBI SAIC John Casey, alone in his office.

I bring my eyes back to the big man sitting behind his desk. "Excuse me, sir, I'm not sure I understand."

He snarls. "You heard me, Bartowski."

I learned quite some time ago that John Casey and geniality are not on a first-name basis.

I work hard to keep the incredulity out of my voice. I fail miserably.

"You want me to go undercover at Larkin's jazz club?"

Bryce "Pretty Boy" Larkin is the city's most notorious criminal. One who's managed to evade prosecution for years. This even after the FBI got involved when one of his enterprises allegedly conducted business across state lines.

"Yes."

I sputter. "But I'm…I'm not a field agent, sir. I work in IT."

I'm also the office's unofficial gadget guy. Q on a much more restricted budget. Desmond Llewelyn in a short-sleeve white shirt and Chucks. Not that any of that makes me qualified for fieldwork.

"I'm well aware of that, Bartowski. And believe me, if I felt we had some other choice, I would have made it.

"Larkin can smell a LEO a mile away. If we send anyone he even suspects is a real agent into the Blue Note, we'll never get the evidence we need. You're about as far away from being a real agent as anyone here. Except for Grimes."

Casey makes a face like he'd just sucked a lemon.

Morgan Grimes is my best friend. We work together in the IT department. We share an apartment. I love the guy, but Casey's characterization is spot on.

"But…but…"

"Man up, Bartowski. It's not as if we're sending you in to arrest anyone." He pauses. "Or shoot anyone."

He grunts. "Not that I'd trust you with a weapon in any case."

I'm not bothered by that. I wouldn't trust me with a weapon either. Probably shoot myself in the foot.

"Larkin and Graham are about to meet. All we need is someone there to get close to them when they do."

Langston "Grumpy" Graham is the city's second most notorious criminal. He runs the south side, Larkin the north. Like Larkin, Graham's activities have attracted the FBI's attention.

"Rumors are that the two of them are about to set aside their rivalry and work together to control the city. We need video evidence and an audio recording of their conversation. If possible."

I shake my head. "How am I supposed to do that?"

"You're good with gadgets. You could use those glasses with the camera and directional mic you cobbled together last year."

"But you said they looked stupid. Too big and clumsy."

"And they were. Anyone who wore them would stand out like a ten-dollar hooker working a Baptist Church picnic."

I've also learned that Casey is fond of colorful similes.

"You've got four days to turn them into something that works."

"Four days? I'll need more time than that!"

"You haven't got it. We've got confirmation that Graham will meet Larkin at his club this coming Saturday night."

"But—"

Casey cuts me off. "No more buts. I suggest you get working. Now. That's an order."

I gulp. "Yes, sir. Will I have backup?"

"Yes. We'll be a block away. When you send us the signal that you've got the information we need, we'll move in and make the arrests. That's the gist. I'll give you your final instructions on Friday." He pauses, pins me with his glare. "When you bring me the redesigned glasses."

I swallow heavily. "Yes, sir."

He utters a grunt of dismissal.

I stand, turn toward the door.

"One more thing, Bartowski."

I turn back. "Yes?"

"I'm placing someone else in the club. To watch over you in case you somehow manage to screw things up."

I'm grateful for that, even while stung by the implication. "Who, sir?"

"You don't need to know. Now, get out of here. And don't tell anyone about this. Especially Grimes. He can no more keep his mouth shut than two gossip-mongering housewives at a beauty parlor."

I scuttle out of the office.

…

I'm moodily staring at my half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza, thinking, when someone places their tray on the table and sits down beside me.

"Hi, Chuck."

I turn.

Gloomily, I reply, "Oh, hi, Sarah."

Sarah Walker works down the hallway from me in research.

With her blonde hair piled up in a messy bun, big, old-fashioned glasses, sloppy cardigan sweater with sleeves that are too long, baggy jeans and no visible makeup, she gives new definition to the word frumpy.

But she's cute. With a smile that can make you melt.

And those eyes…

We're friends. Good friends.

She raises an eyebrow. "What's with the sad face? Sub-standard batch of pepperoni?"

I shake my head. "We'll have to cancel movie night this week."

…

A few months ago, we somehow fell into the habit of having lunch together. I've never been able to figure out exactly how that happened.

I'd seen her in the hallways before, even chatted with her a couple of times as we stood together in the cafeteria lineup. She was always friendly.

Once, I had to fix her computer. Most of the staff, especially the women, leave their desks while I'm working. Sarah didn't. She'd stayed and we talked about work and stuff like that.

She'd thanked me when I finished.

And then she'd smiled at me.

Not the polite now-let-me-get-back-to-work smile I'm used to seeing.

No, a real smile. One in her eyes.

That was the first time I noticed how expressively blue they were.

I think I walked on air all the way back to my department.

The next day, Morgan told me he needed to take a late lunch so he could work on one of the office's routers. That same day, Sarah came and sat down beside me at lunch. After an initial awkwardness, we fell into an easy conversation.

I quickly found out that she's wicked smart.

The same thing happened for the next couple of days. I'd never known Morgan to be so diligent in his duties. Usually, he'd drop whatever he was doing in a heartbeat when it came time to eat.

I found that I really liked spending time with her. The lunch hours flew by.

During our discussions, we discovered a mutual fondness for classic black and white films.

So, at the end of that work week, I'd cautiously invited her over on Saturday to watch Casablanca. I told her that Morgan could join us if that would make her feel more comfortable.

She eagerly accepted my invitation and told me she was perfectly fine with just the two of us.

Since then, Saturday movie night has become a regular thing. It seems neither of us have much of a social life.

We chat about the movie's plot, the characters, their motivations, the cinematography, what we did like and didn't. There's a ton of stuff I don't notice that she picks up on.

Like I said. Wicked smart.

We don't always agree about everything, but that's okay. I value her opinions. She's brought me around to her point of view on numerous occasions. As I have done for her.

We share snacks. For some reason, she always used to steal the popcorn from my bowl. She said it tasted better. I gave up after a while and put it all in one big bowl on the couch between us.

It's odd. Almost every time I reach for the popcorn, she does too.

When our hands touch, I feel this little jolt. It may just be static electricity. I'm not sure.

A month ago, during a particularly tense scene, the usual foot of separation between us somehow disappeared. She wound up right beside me, holding on tight to my right arm.

Since then, we've sat closer, with some part of our shoulders or arms or legs in constant contact. I now keep the popcorn in our shared lap.

Two Saturdays ago, after what must've been a tiring week at work for her, I suddenly realized that she'd fallen asleep with her head on my shoulder. My arm had been on the couch behind her. Greatly daring, I'd very gently put my arm around her shoulders.

I just wanted to make sure she wouldn't slip down. You know. Off my shoulder. Just so she wouldn't get a crick in her neck.

It's what a friend would do.

As careful as I'd been, she'd woken up when I put my arm around her, but she'd just sleepily looked at my hand, then at me and gently smiled. Then she'd snuggled in closer before closing her eyes again.

I didn't dare move until the movie finished and the silence caused her to stir.

Lunch with Sarah is the highlight of my workday. Saturday evenings are the highlight of my week, even more than gaming nights with Morgan. Having to miss this week is part of the reason I'm so grumpy.

Speaking of Morgan, he keeps telling me that Sarah and I are dating.

I keep telling him that we're nothing more than friends.

He just smiles and shakes his head.

It's becoming a little irritating.

…

"Why?"

"Just got an assignment from Casey I'm not keen on."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"I can't. You know the old 'if-I-tell-you-I'd-have-to-kill-you' thing."

She chuckles. "Gotcha.

"Just as well. As it turns out, I'll be busy the rest of this week. I'll be working off-site."

"Doing what?"

"If I tell you, I'd have to…." Grinning toothily, she draws her finger across her throat.

I forgot to mention that she's funny, too.

I laugh. "Ok. We'll make it the following Saturday then. It's your turn to choose. What'll it be?"

We've just begun a noir phase. Last week it was Gilda with Rita Hayworth and Glenn Ford.

"I was thinking either The Maltese Falcon or The Big Sleep. Hammett or Chandler. I haven't quite decided."

"How about both? A double dose of Bogart. Sort of a make-up for the week we'll miss?"

"Sure you can stand to be around me for that many hours at a stretch, Chuck?"

She smiles, gently, with just the tiniest hint of uncertainty.

I love that smile. All her smiles, really.

And all her frowns, for that matter.

I sigh theatrically. "I'll suffer through."

We both chuckle. We chat over lunch until we have to head back to our departments.

…

On Friday, I'm called back into Casey's office.

There's no preamble. "Well? Is it done?"

I pull the glasses out of my shirt pocket, put them on.

"Do they work?"

I take out my phone. "Please open your laptop."

He does.

I activate a couple of commands on my phone.

It takes a second, but then Casey jumps a little as he sees his image appear on his screen.

"I've turned off the sound at the moment, otherwise there'd be feedback. But trust me, they do work. I've set it up so the recordings will be saved to my phone.

"Good, Bartowski. They look like normal glasses. I knew you could do it."

I'd never gotten the impression that he had any confidence in me before, but I'll take whatever praise I can get.

"So, exactly how will I be using them, sir?"

"Larkin has his personal table, separated by twenty feet from its nearest neighbor. He conducts some of his business there. He counts on the music to mask his conversations."

"That seems kind of out in the open."

"Yeah, it's his way of thumbing his nose at the authorities. Pretty much telling us he can do what he wants and there's nothing we can do to stop him."

"So I'm to observe, hoping the glasses will be able to record what they're doing and saying. Is that right?"

"Yes. We've reserved you a spot that places Larkin's table between you and the stage. You'll ostensibly be watching the performers, but actually be watching Larkin and Graham. And listening. That's all you'll have to do. Think you can manage that?"

"Yes, sir." I pause.

"Anything else, Bartowski?"

"I do have one suggestion, sir."

"Yes?"

"Place a surveillance van across the street from the club. That's about the maximum range for the glasses' signal. There they can record the feed as a backup. In case something goes wrong."

"Good idea." He thinks for a moment. "I'll use Barnes. He's experienced at that sort of thing."

I squirm in my seat.

Casey sighs. "Yes?"

"I'd rather use Morgan. We work well together. He'll know if I need help even if I'm not in a position to ask for it. And he's good with the tech."

I don't tell Casey that Barnes creeps me out.

He snarls. "Have you already told that bearded troll about the op? Against my instructions?"

I feel a few beads of sweat form on my forehead. "No, sir. I was going to run it by you first."

Casey stares at me for a few seconds. It seems like a lot longer.

He growls. "Permission granted. But he stays in the van. No extra-curricular activities. And you tell him he has to keep his trap shut until the op is completed."

"Yes, sir."

"Now get out of here. Bring Grimes to the conference room for our final briefing at 1600."

"Yes, sir."

I stand, relieved, turn for the door.

"Stop."

I turn back.

"What are you planning to wear tomorrow?"

I shrug. "I've got an old sports coat I can wear with my black work pants."

He puts his head down, sighs to himself, "I should've known."

He raises his head. "A sports coat won't cut it, Bartowski. We can't have you looking like some down and out hobo who found his clothes in the Sally Ann reject bin."

The coat's not that bad. And who says hobo anymore?

Casey, for one, I guess.

"Larkin's club is a black-tie kind of place. You'll need to blend in."

"I don't have a tux, sir."

Casey's voice drips sarcasm. "What a surprise."

He opens his desk drawer, pulls out a card. He hands it to me.

"Here. Go and see Ilsa after the briefing. Tell her I sent you. She'll set you up with a rental tux." He looks down at my Chuck-clad feet, disgustedly. "And shoes. She'll bill it to the office."

I stand still, looking at the card, wondering why a man like John Casey would have cards to a tux rental place in his drawer.

And who is this Ilsa?

In a moment of madness, I'm actually thinking about asking, but when I see the scowl on his face I decide otherwise.

I leave quickly.

…

I stand, a little unsure of whom I'm seeing in the reflection. But I like whoever it is.

Ilsa did a great job of setting me up.

The tux fits to perfection, somehow making me look even taller while banishing the lankiness I normally associate with my mirror image.

I did, however, have to watch the YouTube video three times before I could figure out how to tie the bowtie.

Part of me wishes Sarah could see me right now.

For a moment, I imagine her in a long dress, her hair down, uttering the old "you clean up nice" line, while she brushes away some imaginary lint from my lapels and straightens my tie.

But another part of me is glad she won't get a chance to see me right now.

Her style—her whole life, as far as I can tell—is the polar opposite of the tux and gown crowd.

If she saw how much I like the way I currently look, she might think that she needed some sort of…upgrade…herself. I wouldn't want that. Her changing just to please me.

I hear my bedroom door open. There's a voice behind me.

"Bond. James Bond." The English accent is horrendous.

I turn to see Morgan grinning at me. Dressed in black from head to toe. With gloves, although it's 75 degrees outside.

I don't even ask why. "It's just me, Morgan."

He shakes his head. "Nope, in this case, the clothes do make the man. Where did you get the tux?"

"From a friend of Casey's. Ilsa. She runs the rental place down on Second Avenue."

He looks me up and down, appraisingly.

"She did a great job. It's almost too bad you don't smoke. It would add a certain je ne sais quoi."

"What's with the French?"

"Alex McHugh, the receptionist down on the third floor, speaks French. I've been spending a lot of my lunches with her since Sarah took my spot."

"Alex. Short brunette?"

"Yep. She was irresistibly drawn to the beard."

"Good for you, Morgan." I'm genuinely happy for my friend, while a little concerned for Alex.

I wonder if she has any idea what she's getting into?

"Thanks."

He gestures to my tux. "Did Sarah see you in this?"

"No, she hasn't been around this week."

I've missed her. Her smile. Her voice.

He's concerned. "You guys having problems?"

I shake my head. "No. Just a project that's taking a lot of her time off-site. In any case, I've been working on the glasses and wouldn't have had a lot of time to spare even if she was free."

Morgan's puzzled. "What sort of research project would keep her that busy?

I shrug. "She couldn't tell me. The same way I couldn't tell you about this op until yesterday."

"Got it. And thanks for bringing me in, Chuck. I've always had a hankering to work in the field."

"You're just sitting in the van, listening and watching."

"I know. But the Blue Note reminds me of those clubs from one of those Forty's noir films. Even being on the fringes is cool.

"But you, you get to go right into the lion's den."

At this unwelcome reminder, my palms start to sweat again.

"Thanks a lot, Morg."

I guess he sees my nervousness.

"You'll do fine, buddy. And remember. Morgan Grimes has got your back."

I'm not sure I find that thought entirely comforting.

I ask, "You remember the code word?"

He taps his left temple. "Locked up tight in here. You say the word and I'll send in the cavalry."

Morgan reaches up, brushes some lint from my lapel.

"You clean up nice."

That's not quite the way I'd imagined it.

…

Sitting in a nest of bad men

Whiskey bottles piling high

I take a surreptitious deep breath, trying to quell my nerves.

I'd almost blown it right off the bat. When the scantily clad, red-headed hostess had asked me what name my reservation was under, I froze for a couple of seconds.

I couldn't, for the life of me, recall what cover name they'd given me.

Then it came to me. But before I could stop myself, I'd replied, idiotically, "Carmichael. Charles Carmichael."

I know. All I can say is that no English accent was attempted.

The hostess, Carina was her name, had smiled and shown me to my table. She'd smiled again as she left to go back to her station.

Mine was the last empty table.

Bathed in blue light, the jazz quartet on the stage is playing some soft piece I'm not familiar with. Just loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough to be nothing but background noise at this point.

From the level of jollity that surrounds me, it's easy to tell that the liquor had been flowing freely for some time before I arrived.

When the waitress comes around, I order a vodka martini, even though I don't really like martinis. It just seems to be the right thing to do given the atmosphere.

I need to blend in.

As Casey had laid out in his briefing, Larkin's table sits twenty feet directly in front of me.

Langston Graham is sitting there, alone, drinking what looks like scotch on the rocks. He's drumming his fingers impatiently on the tabletop, his frown visible, even in profile.

The tables flanking Larkin's are populated with what are obviously tuxedo-clad bodyguards of the two mob bosses. Big men. Discernibly armed. To the teeth, I suspect.

Clones. The only difference between them is that one table has nothing but white faces, the other nothing but black.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out who belongs to whom.

None of them are drinking.

The sight of the bodyguards makes me wonder who Casey placed inside the club to watch over me. Remembering his words, it would have to be someone Larkin would never suspect of being an agent.

I remember the smiles that Carina, the hostess, gave me. They seemed almost reassuring.

Maybe it's her, brought in from some other office. Hopefully, I'll never need to find out.

The room lights dim, then Larkin suddenly appears, spotlighted as he enters through a hidden door to the left of the stage. There's a ripple of applause from members of the audience, largely composed of his cronies, I suspect.

Larkin's smile is dazzling, almost blinding, as he waves to his supporters.

The spotlight goes out. He sits at his table, acknowledges Graham with a quick nod before turning his head to face the stage. A waitress places a martini in front of him.

The quartet begins playing in earnest. Although I'm not big on the genre, I recognize it.

Take Five.

I've never witnessed live jazz before. I'm engrossed as I listen and watch the musicians each play their part. I almost forget why I'm here.

I think Sarah would enjoy something like this. Perhaps it's time for her and me to expand our horizons. Someplace that wouldn't need fancy dress. Wouldn't want to put her on the spot.

Larkin and Graham pay polite, silent attention

But then the piece ends and a much louder one begins, one I again don't recognize.

Full of people who are doing wrong

It seems the two bosses may have been waiting for that. They start talking, most often in profile, occasionally with one face turned away from me.

The noise-filtering algorithms I wrote are doing their job. Even with the blaring saxophone, I can pick up their words through the bone conduction speaker in the frame of my glasses.

"Okay, Larkin, you've got me here. What are you proposing?"

"Bryce, please, Langston. If we're going to be partners, we can surely be on a first-name basis."

There's a pause before Graham replies.

"Look, Larkin. I don't like you. I don't use first names with people I don't like. So, again, what are you proposing?"

Larkin shakes his head, sighs.

"What I'm proposing is this, Graham. It's time to put an end to this ridiculous war between us. One of my men steps over the line, so you send one of yours to take him out. Then I'm honor-bound to reply and take out one of yours and so on and so on, ad nauseam. It's a waste of time and resources."

"I agree. What do you think we should do about it?"

"This city is certainly big enough for both of us. I'm doing well and I believe you are too."

"I am. But we're bound to step on each other's toes, from time to time."

"For example?"

"For example, the new high school being built right on the border separating our territories. Who's going to run the drug trade there?"

"Here's why my proposal is so brilliant."

Larkin leans in closer.

"Hypothetically, let's say I let you run the drug trade for the whole city in return for a cut. I'll run all the extortion and give you a cut of that. That way we're not killing each other off fighting for our share."

I can see Graham think it over. After a few moments, he nods.

"I see the sense in it. But how would either of us know if the other side is cheating?"

"This is where Alexi Volkoff comes in."

"Volkoff? That guy is strictly European. And a little nuts. Why would he be involved?"

"For a small cut off the top, Volkoff sends a team—let's call them accountants—to check the books of both sides. Just to make sure everyone is playing by the rules."

"And what happens if they catch one side cheating?"

"Remember what happened to Emmett Milbarge down in Miami?"

"That was Volkoff?"

Larkin nods.

"I just found out yesterday. Milbarge had gone in with Harry Tang, but then he tried to play both ends against the middle. Volkoff's team found out and told their boss."

Graham shakes his head. "They're still finding pieces of Milbarge in the Everglades."

"Exactly. Nobody in his right mind goes against Volkoff. And both of us are definitely in our right minds, aren't we, Graham?"

"Yes, we are. But what if we find we don't like the arrangement with him?"

"We pay him a penalty fee and we're done."

"You're sure about that?"

"Yes. Colt and Delgado over in Boston bowed out and there weren't any problems."

Graham turns his head, looks at the stage, says nothing for a minute or so.

"Alright, Larkin."

"We have an agreement in principle?"

"Yes."

"Good. We can iron out the details later. How about some champagne to celebrate?"

"I'm good with my scotch."

"Alright."

Larkin raises his martini, the two men clink glasses and each takes a sip. A few seconds pass.

"There are a couple of things we need to take care of before we can proceed, Larkin."

"Such as?"

"Shaw, for one. He's not going to like that we've met."

"No, I suspect he won't. But Shaw's small potatoes. Once we combine forces we can take him out easy."

Graham nods. "I agree, but we also need to do something about that G-man, Casey. He's been nosing around."

"Yes. I've already set something in motion."

"What?"

"Let's just say as of Monday at 7 pm or thereabouts, the city will have experienced another one of those tragic murder/suicides. Ilsa Trinchina will be killed by her significant other, John Casey, who will then shoot himself.

"The rumor will spread that Ilsa was working undercover for Shaw. Casey found out. They argued. I have three witnesses who'll say they overheard the argument in her apartment."

"And the hint of scandal will taint any investigations Casey had going. Smart."

"Thank you."

"And good riddance. That bastard has been a thorn in my side for far too long."

"Mine as well."

I cover my mouth, pretending to yawn. Trusting the supplementary microphone in my glasses will pick up my voice, I urgently ask, "Did you get that, Morgan?"

"10-4, Chuck. I'll pass it on right now."

There's a minute of silence before Morgan comes back on.

"Casey's on it. He's sent a protective detail to Ilsa's place, just in case. He sounded pissed."

I expect that's the understatement of the year.

Trying not to attract any further attention to myself, I just nod, confident that Morgan will see the movement on his feed.

The current piece comes to an end with a flourish of drums.

I see Graham push his chair back, make a movement to rise.

It seems they're done. I'm just about to tell Morgan to send the signal to Casey and his crew when Larkin gestures for Graham to remain seated.

I decide to hold off. Maybe if I stick around, I'll get even more evidence to use against them.

"I thought we were done, Larkin."

"Yeah, the business is done, but I'd like you to stay for the next act. It's a new talent I discovered earlier this week.

"She's…well, just stay and see for yourself. I'm quite certain you won't be disappointed."

"I'd better not be."

"Wait here. I'll introduce her."

Larkin stands and walks to the stage. He mounts three stairs and stops before a standing microphone.

He's spotlighted once more. He holds up his hand. The audience quiets down.

"Ladies and gentlemen, one of the perks of owning your own club is that I can showcase whomever I please.

"This week, a singer came to my attention. I was thoroughly impressed. So I've invited her to perform for us tonight.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for…Miss Katherine O'Connell!"

Larkin claps, the audience follows suit.

He quickly leaves the stage, sits back at his table.

The spotlight, light blue this time, focuses on the door that Larkin had used earlier.

It slowly opens.

She was a long cool woman in a black dress

Jus beautiful tall

She steps through the doorway, doesn't so much walk into the room as…I search my mind for the word.

Sashay.

That's it.

She slowly sashays into the room, with a touch of sway in her hips.

The spotlight follows her. The movement is absolutely mesmerizing.

She's tall. About Sarah's height, if I had to guess.

The clinging, long black dress accentuates her slender, athletic figure. The neckline, supported by thin shoulder straps, displays a generous amount of cleavage.

The back is open, plunging to her waist. There's a long slit that reveals a lot of her toned right leg as she moves, ever so gracefully, across the room.

I'm a man. I notice stuff like that.

So sue me.

In my defense, my gaze didn't linger on her dress, or, more accurately, on the contents of said dress.

I want to see her face. However, her shoulder-length blonde hair, reminiscent of the peek-a-boo style Veronica Lake was famous for, currently obscures her profile from my view.

I find myself leaning forward, hoping to catch even just a glimpse. I think every man here is doing the same.

But she doesn't turn, just continues her captivating journey toward the stage.

When she reaches the three steps, she doesn't walk up them.

She ascends.

Slowly, elegantly, almost floating, pulling up her skirt just enough to fully reveal her black stilettos,

The audience is in the palm of her hand. You could hear a pin drop.

Approaching the microphone, she turns to face the audience, her head down, her hair tumbling forward, concealing, teasing.

She does a perfect hair flip, just like Rita Hayward in Gilda, her perfect blonde locks somehow settling in perfect order, framing her perfect face.

A face I recognize instantly, even with all the skillfully applied makeup and ruby lips.

Sarah.

My Sarah.

My temperature started to rise

Just one look I was a bad mess

'Cause that long cool woman had it all

I hear a gasp from the audience. I think it may have been me. I'm not sure.

It sounded a lot like me.

I suspect my expression is pretty much the same as that of Bob Hoskins' Eddy Valiant when he sees Jessica Rabbit for the first time.

Of course, Sarah doesn't actually look that much like Jessica. No real human, despite Morgan's wishful, juvenile protestations to the contrary, could possibly have that kind of…anatomical structure.

But there's a lot of Jessica—and Gilda—in the way she stands and moves.

It almost hurts my eyes to look at her, she's so beautiful.

But even as I gape, my mind's awhirl. Confusion. Apprehension.

Why is she here? Dressed like that? Ready to perform?

Whoever Casey sent is going to have a much tougher job now, having to watch over two of us.

I fervently wish I had been issued a weapon, as much as they scare me.

What if things go south? How am I going to protect her without one?

Then it dawns on me.

Sarah is the person he sent to protect me.

I have no idea why Casey would send a bookworm-ish researcher into a potentially dangerous situation. Or why she'd agree to do it, for that matter.

But, for now, all I can do is trust him—and her.

And make sure I don't do anything to attract unwelcome attention.

Sarah scans the audience, gracing the patrons with her smile.

Her gaze seems to settle on me for a moment, although I suspect every man is thinking the same thing.

She speaks, unhurriedly, her voice a touch throatier than I'm used to.

"The song I'm about to perform is one of those that your heart sings when you find that…special someone.

"Someone who loves you for who you are. Someone who loves the real person, the one deep, deep down inside."

She looks straight at me for a second or two, gives me her special smile.

Did Sarah Walker just tell me that I love her?

I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. It's fortunate that no one in the room is paying me any attention.

"This is for that someone."

She turns her head, nods slowly to the pianist. The music starts.

She steps close to the microphone.

Her voice is a soft contralto. A lot like Diana Krall.

's wonderful! 's marvelous!

You should care for me!

's awful nice! 's paradise!

's what I love to see!

You've made my life so glamorous

You can't blame me for feeling amorous.

She pauses, ever so briefly, and flashes me a quick, amused grin.

Oh! 's wonderful! 's marvelous!

That you should care for me!

's wonderful! 's marvelous!

That you should care for me!

's awful nice! 's paradise!

's what I love to see!

'S wonderful

The pianist goes into a solo riff. Sarah watches, approvingly, for a few moments.

That gives me the chance to catch my breath, to gather my thoughts.

Of course, I love her.

How could I have been so incredibly stupid as to not understand that until this moment?

And, unless I'm absolutely hopeless at reading the signs (which, it seems, I very well may be), she loves me, too.

I expect that realization is written all over my face, in my goofy smile.

She notices, nods. Smiles back, almost shyly.

Taking the wireless microphone from its stand, she descends the stairs, just as bewitchingly as she'd ascended them.

I saw her heading to the table

Well, a tall walking big black cat

The solo ends, she brings the microphone back up, languidly circulates among the tables as she sings.

From now on my heart's working overtime

Oh! 'S wonderful, marvelous

That you should care for me

'S wonderful'S marvelous

You should care for me

'S awfully nice

'S what I love to w

She starts toward my table, moving with the feline grace of a black panther.

I gulp, unable to take my eyes off of her.

"Dude! Is that Sarah?!"

It's Morgan. Amazement in his voice. She looks so different that I guess he hadn't recognized her until she got closer.

I can't find words, so I just nod, choppily.

"Whoa! She's a blonde Jessica Rabbit! Do you think you can handle that, Chuck?"

I have no idea, but I'm willing—eager—to try.

Sarah reaches my table just as the song ends.

Oh! 'S wonderful

'S marvelous

That you should care for me

She draws out the last line, winks at me, then turns to accept the thunderous applause of the audience.

I clap until my hands start to hurt.

Sarah starts back toward the stage, bestowing little smiles upon the people she passes.

On the stage, the quartet softly plays the refrain from the tune.

She's almost at the stairs when the happy murmur of the audience is shattered by a loud voice directly behind me. The music stops.

"Larkin, I'm very disappointed that I wasn't invited to this little meeting."

I turn my head. Standing stiffly, dressed impeccably, is Daniel "The Mannequin" Shaw, flanked by half a dozen henchmen.

Shaw's the city's third most notorious gangster. He has a small territory on the east side, down by the docks.

I get the distinct feeling he's about ready to move up the charts.

With a bullet.

I turn to see Larkin stand, frowning. "You know the rules, Shaw. You don't bring your men into my club without my permission."

"If I didn't, I get the feeling I wouldn't be heard."

Graham stands as well. "This isn't the place, Shaw. Let's meet someplace neutral and talk."

Shaw shakes his head. "No, I'm done with talking."

And everybody started to run

Jumping under doors and tables

Well, I heard somebody shooting a gun

It's like the scene in one of those westerns where the crowd in the saloon, sensing there's about to be trouble, start edging out of the line of fire.

I catch a glimpse of both Larkin's and Graham's men slowly reaching for their weapons.

Shaw's men do the same.

A gun goes off.

All hell breaks loose.

Well-dressed men and women start diving behind overturned tables, scrambling for the exits.

I throw myself to the floor under my table.

I shout, hoping Morgan can hear me over the din, "Pineapple! Pineapple!"

Probably unnecessary. He can certainly hear what's going on.

I'm just able to discern Morgan's response, "Hold on, Chuck! Help's on the way!"

Where's Sarah?

My heart's in my throat.

I have to get to Sarah.

Frantic, I crawl out of my hiding place. I leap to my feet in to see where she is. My glasses go flying who knows where.

There's a man, on whose side, I have no idea. I don't actually see his face. All I can see is the very large revolver he's pointing at me.

I close my eyes, wishing I'd had the chance, just once, to tell Sarah I love her.

There's the crash of a gunshot. I don't feel any impact.

I open my eyes. The man with the gun is writhing on the floor, a spreading red blossom on his shoulder, his weapon lying beside him.

Sarah is standing beside me, a small, chrome automatic in her right hand. Where that came from, I have no idea. Smoke is curling out of the barrel.

There's a fierce, uncompromising determination in her eyes that I've never seen before. A shiver goes down my spine.

She offers her hand.

For the briefest of moments, I'm indecisive, torn between hiding and running.

Her expression softens. "Trust me, Chuck."

I take her hand.

We run.

Up ahead, a man tumbles to the ground, his pistol pumping rounds into the ceiling. Plaster falls like snowflakes.

Lights flicker and go out. Distorted shadows are cast from the functioning ones.

Debris litters the floor.

Bodies fall to our left and our right.

Through it all, Sarah holds on to my right hand, never letting go, not even for a second.

Her eyes everywhere at once, she seems to know how to unerringly pick our way safely through the maelstrom. Zig-zagging. Stopping for a second here. Ducking down there.

In the minuscule gaps between gunshots, I hear the comforting sound of the sirens.

The exit is tantalizingly close when a man pops up to block our way, gun in hand.

Without a pause, Sarah shoots him in the kneecap. The man drops his weapon, collapses to the floor, focused solely on his pain, no longer on us.

I swallow heavily, pushing away my nausea.

Real violence is nothing like what you see at the movies or in video games.

Sarah kicks away his gun as we pass.

We're almost to safety when I notice Carina, the hostess, huddling, trembling behind a potted palm tree, her hands over her ears, eyes closed.

I jerk to a stop. Her hand still gripping mine, Sarah, perforce, stops as well.

She shouts, "What the hell, Chuck?"

I shout back, "We can't leave her here, Sarah!"

She nods choppily.

I reach over with my free hand, touch Carina on the shoulder.

She jumps. Opens her eyes. Wild with fear.

"Come with us!"

She hesitates. I grab her hand. She follows.

Two seconds later, hand in hand in hand, we dive through the exit.

The doors slam behind us. Muffling the cacophony of gunshots and moans from within.

Some former members of the audience are fleeing down the street. Others sit exhausted on the sidewalk, some nursing hopefully minor wounds.

Five or six vehicles pull up in front of the club, light flashing, sirens blaring.

A SWAT team pours out of a large van; heavily armed and heavily armored. They run to take up positions around the club, covering all the exits.

Ambulances come to a stop. The EMTs rush to help the wounded.

A man, the quartet's drummer, I think, comes over and takes Carina's arm. She looks at him gratefully as he leads her off to one side.

Casey jumps out of a gray government-issue sedan, wearing a bulletproof vest with FBI emblazoned across it in large yellow letters.

Other agents join him, similarly attired. They talk urgently, Casey gestures, telling them what he wants them to do.

Suddenly feeling a little dizzy, I bend over, gasping, trying to drive oxygen into my lungs and the acrid smell of gunpowder from my nose.

Sarah brings her head close to mine, her voice anxiety itself. "Chuck, are you hit?"

I straighten, finally able to catch my breath. "No, Sarah, I'm alright. Are you okay?"

She's terse. "Yes."

She pauses. "Chuck, I felt you flinch when I shot that man. I didn't want you to see that. But I had no choice.

"I will not let anyone—anyone—hurt you. I'll do whatever it takes. Please try to understand that."

"I do—I think. I probably would've died in there if it wasn't for you.

"But everything was so sudden, so unexpected."

I look into her eyes. "You. Here. The gunfight. You with a gun in your hand."

I gulp. "You shooting both of those guys."

She shakes her head. Her voice is firm. "I hadn't expected matters to turn out the way they did."

"But you were prepared, nonetheless."

"Yes."

I wait for her to expand on that.

She doesn't.

"I'm really confused, Sarah. Grateful, but confused."

Her eyes remain on mine, but her shoulders slump, just a little.

"I understand."

I think she's about to add something when Casey walks quickly up to us.

There's genuine concern in his voice. "You two okay?"

We both nod.

"Good. What the hell happened in there? Grimes was a little incoherent."

I'm not surprised. Morgan has a tendency to get that way when excited.

We fill Casey in.

"Did you get the evidence we needed, Bartowski?"

I pat my jacket pocket. Miraculously, my phone's still there. I hand it to Casey.

"Yes, and Morgan has the backup."

"Good." He slips the phone into his pant's pocket, then shakes my hand. The left hand, since my right's still grasped in Sarah's.

"Well done."

He turns to Sarah. "Walker. Good job getting the two of you outta there without being perforated."

She simply nods, standing straight, all business once more.

He offers his right hand. Sarah takes it, her pistol somehow having vanished back to that mysterious place from whence it came.

She replies sternly, "I hope you're not expecting me to make a regular habit of this sort of thing, Casey."

Sarah speaks to him as an equal, not a subordinate. I hold my breath, waiting for him to blow his top.

He does no such thing. Instead, he shakes his head. "No, I just knew you'd be the best person to keep Bartowski safe. You're free to go back to the research department on Monday.

"But remember, there's always a spot waiting for you in the field if you ever change your mind."

I gape at her, almost as confused as when I first saw her on stage. What's going on here?

She shakes her head, vehemently. "No. I'm done with that."

Casey shrugs, resignedly. "Too bad. You were good. Damn good."

He gives both of us a long look.

"You two take off. We can handle it from here. Be at the office. 0900. Monday. Make your reports then."

Casey turns back toward the Blue Note. I don't hear any more gunfire.

He mutters, "Hopefully, those animals have killed each other off. Save the city the cost of a trial."

He walks away.

I catch the flash of someone running full tilt toward us. It's Morgan.

He crashes into me, hugs me tightly, burying his head in my chest.

Then he turns to Sarah, clearly with the same intent in mind.

Sarah gives him a look.

He stops himself.

"Chuck! Sarah! Are you guys alright?"

I assure him, "We're both good, Morg."

He nods. "I was freaked out of my mind! It looked like something out of the Godfather in there."

"Morg, how could you see anything? I lost the glasses."

"Dude, they somehow landed on your table pointed towards the main part of the action. I've got the whole thing on tape! I wish I could put it up on YouTube. I'm sure we'd get a million hits!

"Last time I checked, they were still sending a signal. But it's hard to see anything. Most of the lights have been shot out."

He takes a deep breath, gets a grip on his excitement.

"Thank you, Sarah, for taking care of my man. Nobody could've done a better job than you."

"You're welcome, Morgan."

"And thanks for what you did with Alex. I think she likes me." He sounds doubtful.

What the…

"Don't worry, she does."

He smiles.

Casey barks, "Grimes! Get back to the van. I need to know what's going on inside the club."

"Yes, sir!"

He runs off with a wave.

She doesn't look at me. "I imagine you have questions. Lots of them."

I manage to hold back my sarcastic rejoinder.

"Yeah, I do. Can you blame me?"

She shakes her head. "No, of course not. But not here. There's a 24-hour diner over on Stonehouse.

"Walk with me, Chuck?" There's that faint note of uncertainty I've heard before. And wondered about.

I grip her hand a little more tightly. "Of course, Sarah."

I see the relief in her smile.

We don't say anything in the five-minute walk to the diner. I can tell she's thinking about how she's going to reply to my questions, so I don't pressure her.

We reach the diner, an old-fashioned place with a big neon sign of a smiling man in a chef's hat.

The Jolley Chef.

I wonder about the spelling, but more pressing matters quickly push those thoughts aside.

We step through the door. It's cold, the air conditioning at full blast.

She shivers. I drop her hand so I can take off my jacket, drape it over her shoulders. She hugs it tight, smiling her silent thanks.

The place is almost empty. The bored-looking waitress sitting on one of the counter stools looks up from her book. She doesn't bat an eye. Maybe she's used to late-night patrons dressed to the nines, although I can't imagine why.

"Sit anywhere you like."

There's a booth near the back. We take it, sit facing each other.

The waitress approaches.

"You need menus?"

"Just coffee for me. Black. Sarah?"

"The same."

The waitress shuffles off. Two minutes later she deposits coffee cups in front of each of us.

She gestures vaguely. "I'll be over there if you need anything."

'Thank you."

She wanders back to her stool. Picks up her book.

I take a sip of my coffee. It's good.

She takes a sip. Nods.

I loosen my tie, try to look cool. Like George Clooney in Ocean's Eleven.

Sarah doesn't need to try.

She is cool.

We're both quiet.

She breaks the silence. "What do you want to ask first, Chuck?"

I want to jump right to the heart of the matter, but I decide to start with something less fraught with complications.

"Morgan thanked you for what you did with Alex. What was that about?"

"I set him up with her. She told me she'd like to get to know him."

"That was very kind of you."

"I'd like to say I was doing it solely for unselfish reasons, but I had…ulterior…motives."

"Excuse me?"

"I needed to get Morgan out of the way."

"Why?"

"You two were always joined at the hip. It seemed that wherever you went, he went. At lunch, you two always got lost in some technical IT discussion or talking about games and such.

"I was throwing out all these signals, but you kept missing them."

"Signals? What signals?"

She gives me a flat look. Doesn't say a word.

It takes me a couple of seconds to catch on.

"Oh! I guess that sorta proves your point."

She nods. "I wanted to talk with you. Alone. So I told Morgan I'd introduce him to Alex. In return, he'd find some excuse to miss having lunch with you for the rest of that week."

I'm stunned. "That was all your doing."

"Yep."

"How? When?"

"I had Alex call you down to help her with a tech problem. When you were gone, I asked Morgan to come and look at my computer.

"There was nothing wrong with it. I just wanted to talk to him. I sprang the idea on him and he agreed. Then I asked him to 'sabotage' my workstation. When Alex told me you'd finished with her issues, I called in and had you come to 'fix' my problem."

I shake my head. "You did all that?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I liked you, Chuck."

"But…but you hardly knew me."

She shakes her head. "I did know you. To a point, anyway. You were always patient and kind when people pestered you about their IT issues. You never ogled the girls with their short skirts, never joined in the sotto voce ribald comments that a lot of the men made about them. You were always respectful."

I'm warmed by her compliment, but also mystified. "How could you know all that stuff?"

"I'm very observant." She squirms a bit in her seat.

"Sarah, there's observant and there's observant."

She worries her lip, then stops to take a deep breath.

"I was a CIA agent, Chuck. For three years. Before I joined the FBI."

My voice goes up an octave or two. "You were a spy?"

"We prefer 'agent', but, yes, I was, in fact, a spy."

"How?"

"I was recruited out of Harvard. By the head of the CIA, Roan Montgomery."

I'd heard of him. An old-school Bond type.

"Harvard, huh?" I'm impressed, but not surprised, not really.

Wicked smart.

She nods. "I'd been a student research assistant for one of the profs there. I was good, very good. I thought the CIA wanted me for that talent."

She shakes her head. "I was wrong."

She gestures down her body. "Turns out they wanted me for this, although I didn't figure that out until quite some time later. Long after I'd gone through The Farm."

Her voice is quiet. "I was naive. They don't put researchers through The Farm.

"Strangely enough, I excelled at my training. Somehow, Roan had recognized that potential in me."

"Almost before I knew what was happening, I was a covert CIA agent. They started giving me missions, simple ones at first, eventually evolving into more complex ones as I gained experience.

"I have good instincts. That, combined with my research background, helped me be effective in ferreting out terrorists."

"A year ago, I'd tracked down a Moldovan cell who'd come here to blow up some high-value targets. I was assigned to work with Casey on a joint CIA-FBI anti-terrorism task force

"They didn't come quietly. That was the only time I've had to use my weapon on the job. I had to shoot one of them, not fatally."

I see a bad memory pass over her face. "Still, it turned my stomach."

I nod. It's all clear now. "That's how Casey knows you. What you can do. Why he asked you to take care of me."

"Yes. But I would've insisted if he hadn't asked. I wasn't about to trust your protection to anyone else."

I see that flash of fierceness again.

I'm very glad we're on the same side.

She shakes her head, returns to her narrative. "Shortly after that, Roan called me into his office. He told me that now I'd passed my initiation, the serious missions would start."

She grimaces at the memory. "I was told that a weapons dealer we'd been after for some time had been tracked down in Caracas. The man was a well-known womanizer."

I can see where this is going, but I let her talk.

"I was instructed to use my…charms…to get close to him. And then eliminate him. It was then that I finally understood why I'd been recruited.

"I knew if I accepted this mission, it would only be the first of many. I turned in my resignation that same day. Walked away.

"Casey heard through the grapevine. Offered me a position with the FBI. As an agent. I told him I'd come over, but only in a research capacity.

"He accepted that grudgingly. He still has hopes I'll change my mind. He's the only person in this office who knows my past."

I sit there, unblinking, trying to absorb all that she's told me.

"Chuck? Are you alright?"

I shake my head. "Yeah, Sarah, I am. It's just a lot to take in."

"I know. I've wanted to tell you for some time."

"Why didn't you?"

"I wanted you to like me for who I am. Not for the image of some fantasy woman super-spy my telling you might've conjured up."

"I wouldn't have done that, Sarah." I'm a little upset by her lack of faith in me. I guess my expression gives me away.

She reaches across, grabs my hand. "I know that now, Chuck, and I'm sorry I ever doubted you. I hoped, but I couldn't be certain."

And just like that, it comes to me. "That's why you dressed the way you did. You were testing me."

She nods, blushing. "Yes, I was.

"Please try to understand. Ever since the CIA did their makeover on me, men, far too many, have fallen…in lust…you might say, with this." She gestures down her body once again.

"They didn't care about what was in here," she holds her hand over her heart, "or here." She taps her temple.

"It took me a couple of very short-term, meaningless relationships to understand that.

"I wanted more than that. So I refused to get involved with any more of the agents who importuned me. A rumor, spread by one or more of them, I'm sure, was that I was cold, distant, unfeeling. They started to call me the Ice Queen behind my back."

I'm angry. "That's so wrong. You're not like that. Not at all."

"Not to you, Chuck, but to them, I came across that way.

"When I came here, I wanted a fresh start. I was lonely. I thought—hoped—I might find someone who cared for me."

She looks into my eyes. "And I did."

I feel this warmth surge into my chest. I smile gently, ask, "So, I passed the test?"

She smiles back. "Some weeks ago. With flying colors."

I softly ask, "Why didn't you tell me then, Sarah?"

She blushes. "I should've, I know. But I'd let myself get in too deep. I wasn't sure how I could back up without running the risk of losing…everything."

I see her tears suddenly gathering.

"You make me happy, Chuck. Happier than I've ever been. I can't lose that."

I quickly slide out of my side of the booth, slide over beside her. Hand her a napkin from the dispenser. She takes it, dabs at her eyes.

I put my arm around her shoulder, bring my head close, whisper, "You haven't and you won't."

"But you could've died tonight. Why in god's name did you jump up from underneath your table?"

"I had to find you. I didn't know exactly what I was going to do, but the thought of you being out there…in danger. I couldn't stop myself."

"That's partly my fault. If I'd told you more about my background, you might not have been so worried."

I doubt that would've changed my actions, but I keep that to myself.

"Chuck, can you forgive me for not telling you all this before?"

"Nothing to forgive, Sarah. Unless I'm mistaken, what you did tonight was your way of apologizing."

"Yes. You're right. I wanted to let you see there's more to me than just frumpy Sarah. Doing that would open a dialog, I knew. One I was determined to face.

"But I also wanted to surprise you, so I asked Casey not to tell you."

"So tonight wasn't just you watching over me?"

"No, it was also a…coming-out…party of sorts."

I pointedly look into her eyes.

I smirk. "It most certainly was."

She stares at me for a moment, baffled, then glances down at the gap between the lapels of my jacket.

She blushes even as she grins at me.

"Shut up! I had to wear this to make sure I attracted Larkin's attention at his open auditions. A lot of other women were trying out for the spot."

"None of them could hold a candle to you, Sarah."

"You didn't see them."

"Don't have to. You're beyond stunning in that dress. Larkin woulda picked you even if your singing voice was sub-standard. Which it definitely is not."

Her blush heightens. "Thank you, Chuck."

She adds, a little shyly, "And I'm glad you liked the dress."

"Like isn't even close to being a strong enough word."

She smirks. "I noticed. You looked like the PI in that stupid Roger Rabbit movie."

I gape. "You saw Who Framed Roger Rabbit?"

"Bits of it. But I do recall the scene where—what's her name? The ridiculously voluptuous redhead?"

"Jessica Rabbit."

She raises an eyebrow, suspicious of my quick reply.

"I take it you've seen it."

My turn to blush. "A few times, yeah."

She rolls her eyes. "So, I assume you know what scene I'm talking about?"

"Where she sings, 'Why Don't You Do Right', right?"

"Yes. Roan made me watch it. Over and over."

"Why would he do that?"

"Chuck, tonight wasn't the first time I've gone undercover like this. Just before I was assigned to track down those Moldovan terrorists, I spent a month in a club in Buenos Aires. The CIA suspected it was a front for a Russian arms dealer.

"I took voice lessons. I already knew how to dress and present myself, but Roan had in mind a certain…style…he wanted me to emulate."

"Jessica's style?"

She frowns, nods. "And Rita Hayworth's. In Gilda. The 'Put the Blame on Mame' scene. I liked that movie."

I can't hold in my smirk.

"What?"

"That's who I was picturing tonight."

"Gilda?" She seems pleased with that.

"Yes."

I pause. "And Jessica."

She's less pleased with that.

I grin.

"You know, Chuck, that isn't me. I'm not Gilda and I'm certainly not Jessica."

"And I'm not Danny Ocean."

She raises an interrogative eyebrow.

"You know, George Clooney. In the movie. Ocean's Eleven."

She shakes her head. "Nope."

"It's a heist film. He wears a tux. He's good-looking."

"I know who George Clooney is, Chuck. Haven't seen the film is all."

"I'm not him, but the tux made me feel, you know…kinda cool."

"You do clean up nice, Chuck. Real nice."

I like that. It's not accompanied by any lapel brushing or tie straightening but it's still good. Real good.

"But you're right. You're no George Clooney."

"Gee, thanks." That stings a little. I know I'm not in Sarah's class but—

She interrupts my thoughts. Reaches over and takes my hand.

Earnestly. "You're Chuck. My Chuck. And I'd take Chuck Bartowski over a dozen George Clooneys any day."

I squeeze her hand. I seem to have temporarily lost the power of speech.

"Truth is, this us—right now—isn't really us."

"No, you're right. But then, you're not really frumpy Sarah, either, are you?"

"No, I'm not."

"So, which Sarah are you gonna be from now on?"

She smiles gently, but that hint of uncertainty is back. "Your Sarah, Chuck. If you'll have me."

A future suddenly stretches out before me. A future I could never visualize before.

"Of course I'll have you, Sarah."

I lean in closer, those amazing eyes just a few inches from mine. I whisper, "After all, I have it from a reliable source that I love you. Which, by the way, I do. Very much.

She leans closer, our lips almost touching. Whispers, "And, I, you, Chuck."

One wouldn't normally think that the corner of a booth in an old diner with the odor of fried onions in the air as being a romantic setting.

But it was to me.

It was the first time I kissed my long, cool woman. Or she kissed me. I'm not entirely sure.

And I really don't care.

In fact, the smell of fried onions became sort of an…olfactory…trigger for Sarah and me.

One day, when she's old enough, we'll have to explain to our youngest how an embarrassing incident at a family barbecue...

I'm getting ahead of myself.

That's another story.

I've gotta be forgiven if I wanna spend my living

With a long cool woman in a black dress

'Cause that long cool woman had it all

Had it all

END.

—

A/N: Did you guess it? The line is "Jus beautiful tall" (Not everyone agrees this is exactly correct) interpreted as 5' 9"

I immediately thought of Sarah. And Chuck as the narrator. Then went from there.

At the time The Hollies released Long Cool Woman (In a Black Dress) they were better known for songs like "Bus Stop" and "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother." Tunes very, very different from LCW.

I know, I'm dating myself. Again.

If you haven't seen Roger Rabbit, just google "Jessica Rabbit sings" and you see the scene I referred to here.

As well, if haven't seen Gilda, just type in "Put the Blame on Mame, Rita Hayworth."

You'll see the song and the hair flip.

Loose Ends is stumping me right now. I've got the ending pretty much done, but I'm having trouble getting Chuck and Sarah there. I'm still working on it.

Thanks for your patience. And thanks for reading.

PS If you're not already following Zettel's wonderful Alabama mystery, Big Swamp, do yourself a big favour and head over there.

It's witty, mystifying, atmospheric, and full of engaging, well-drawn characters. You will not be disappointed.